


A Lesson to Learn

by autoschediastic



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Pilot, In Public, M/M, Sexual Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:06:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2685431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I'm sorry for what I must do,” Oswald continues, hands poised at James's waist. “Please don't think I find you unattractive. Far from it, I assure you.” He calms his greedy hands as much as he can as they slide beneath James's clothing, touch skin. James must feel the same electric current as he; it jolts James into motion, bucking wildly as if he truly had no idea what Ms Mooney intended for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson to Learn

James Gordon says, “Drop the bat.”

Authority with a threat as subtle as the one in James's eyes isn't any sort Oswald is accustomed to. Curiosity--a trait he is by turns praised and punished for--loosens his grip. The ring of metal on asphalt is far less nuanced than on flesh and bone. From James it earns no sign of the satisfaction immediate compliance usually sparks in Gotham's finest.

“Just havin' a little fun,” Gilzean says, clapping Raoul's sodden shoulder. “Weren't ya, boys?”

“All in fun,” Oswald assures James. It is just another of Ms Mooney's games, after all. And it had been fun.

“Detective,” says Ms Mooney in a voice as dagger-sharp as her heels. Detective Bullock slumps along at her side, his level glare and the curse twisting his mouth for James both. “I trust you're not interfering with my business.”

“This?” James gestures angrily at the bat, at Oswald too, and Bullock growls, “Gordon,” in a way that suggests he expects it to do no good at all. After only a few moments of James's acquaintance, Oswald suspects he's right.

“Bullshit,” James declares. “You knew I'd put a stop to it. Someone had better pick that man up right now.”

“Fish,” Bullock begins, a cautious warning.

Ms Mooney's hand slices through the air. “I like you, Harvey. I really do. Shut up.”

Detective Bullock's jaw goes tight. His nostrils flare bullishly but he wisely keeps his peace. The look he gives James now is almost apologetic. For all the detective's lazy ways, his crooked tie and unpressed shirt and careless smiles, he is at times exceedingly perceptive. Oswald remains very still so as not to attract Ms Mooney's eye.

Ms Mooney says, “Boys.”

Oswald scuttles out of the way as the fight erupts, his sole contribution toeing the bat from James's reach as he does, a simple thing yet effective enough should someone be watching. Again the alleyway fills with noise, sharp grunts and grudging groans, the thud of fists on flesh. From the relative safety of an alcove Oswald finds a fine viewpoint as James does his best, but this is Gotham--the best he could've done was to make a smarter choice. Ms Mooney stands tall and proud as he goes first to his knees, then delivers the final kick herself that streaks his face with slick black mud. He spits blood as he struggles upward.

“For the love of god, stay down,” mutters Detective Bullock.

“Yes, do,” Oswald agrees. Resistance only worsens Ms Mooney's ire. Far better to play possum.

James listens to neither of them. When he goes down again, the only movement for a long, long moment is the heaving of his back. Oswald steps cautiously from his shelter. Wounded animals are the most dangerous, and smeared with dirt and blood as James is, jacket lost, clothing torn askew and soaked to the skin by the rain, he seems more wild than not. His face lifts as Oswald nears, the streaming rain immediately cutting swaths through the mud. Their gazes lock. Oswald smiles.

“Surely the worst of it is through,” Oswald tells him.

“You're all under arrest,” grates James.

Ms Mooney rolls her eyes. She snaps her fingers and James is hauled staggering to his feet. He shakes his head once far too violently as he stumbles again, and when he's laughed at for his antics, his bleary gaze lands again on Oswald. He bares bloodied teeth in a snarl, as if Oswald is to blame for his fate.

“Now _there's_ an idea,” Ms Mooney says. “Look at me, Detective,” she sneers, again snapping her fingers until James dazedly turns to see. She smiles broadly. “Too used to the beatings Daddy gave you, hm? Well this lesson you'll learn, _boy_ , and you'll learn it good.”

Oswald dares a few more steps to the left, once again bringing James's face into his line of sight. Beaten and bloodied as he is, barely able to stand, James is defiant still. He casts about no worried glances, utters no plea for mercy in the stretching silence. He simply blinks rain from his eyes and waits.

Ms Mooney says, “I see. Oswald.”

Oswald stands immediately straighter. “Yes, Ms Mooney.”

“You remember how this goes, don't you?”

“I-I do, Ms Mooney.” Oswald spares a tight smile for the laughter that meets his stuttering. His insides are a nervous flutter that only worsens when James's gaze finds him again. “It would be an honour, Ms Mooney.”

“I'm sure,” Ms Mooney drawls. Oswald's smile cuts deep into his cheeks. She gestures impatiently. “Get on with it, then.”

“Yes, Ms Mooney,” Oswald says, and turns about quickly. He's strangely blinded for a moment to the tableau, the stormy weather or the excitement or perhaps both serving to blur his vision. A pained grunt from James reorients him. Decisively he says, “The wall, please.”

Gilzean gives James a careless shove toward Oswald instead. “All yours.”

“Yes,” Oswald agrees, not so much catching James from his stagger as changing his trajectory mid-stumble. He shoulders James's weight awkwardly for three steps until the brick is close enough to bear it. “He is.”

James slurs, “What--”

“A lesson, I'm afraid.” For Oswald as well. “You must understand, James,” he says as he settles James chest flush to the slimy bricks, “this isn't a punishment I enjoy.” He tugs at the sodden mess of James's tie, appreciating the nimbleness of his own fingers as he makes quick work of binding James's hands with it. Though James doesn't ask, Oswald imagines the question is clear. Conspiratorial, he murmurs, “Some bruises are easier to conceal than others, my friend.”

“Today, Oswald,” Ms Mooney interrupts.

Oswald's mouth pinches into a smile. With far less ceremony than the task demands, he yanks James’s belt from the loops. The various accessories of James's profession he lets fall into the mud, a statement he's sure Ms Mooney will appreciate, but the empty holster he leaves flapping about James's side.

“I admit I missed that,” Oswald says, spotting the dull gleam of James's firearm in a shallow puddle. “Don't feel too awful. You were quite outnumbered.”

“Wouldn't talk so much if I were you,” James wheezes, clearly favouring his ribs as he props his elbows against the wall. Bruised at least, probably broken; Oswald sets a hand to James's left side beneath the holster and slowly squeezes. Best to know where James is hurt most. “Better h-hit me again, while you--” James's head falls between his arms. “ _Fuck_.”

Oswald's own breath comes shorter. He spares a quick glance to find the approval on Ms Mooney's face. Fitting himself to James's back, he pauses to relish the heat seeping through the rainwater chill before opening James's ruined trousers. “But I don't want to hurt you, James.”

Like the wild animal he'd seemed a short moment ago, James freezes.

“I'm sorry for what I must do,” Oswald continues, hands poised at James's waist. “Please don't think I find you unattractive. Far from it, I assure you.” He calms his greedy hands as much as he can as they slide beneath James's clothing, touch skin. James must feel the same electric current as he; it jolts James into motion, bucking wildly as if he truly had no idea what Ms Mooney intended for him. Oswald does his best just as James did before him to maintain his footing against the onslaught, weakened as it is, but even he eventually must cave to violence. He winces exaggeratedly at the crack of James's skull against the brick, so James might know how very much he didn't wish to do it.

“Don't make me do that again,” Oswald says, voice pitched loud over the rain. Softer, he says, “Please, James. I can help you.”

James offers no reply. He remains slumped against the wall, water pouring over his open mouth, his body swaying slightly as Oswald tugs rain-soaked clothing over equally wet skin. The tail of James's white shirt clings transparently to bared body.

Oswald's hands begin to tremble as he reaches for his own belt. He's quite hard already, obscenely so. His cock glistens appealingly in the ambient light. “You really must relax, James.” The quivering of his limbs seeps deep into his belly with the heat of James's body dragging at him even through the cool empty distance between them. His gaze drifts upward as he smiles. “I'm hardly what one would call well-endowed, but my mother assures me I'm no slouch in that department.”

“Jesus!” shouts Detective Bullock. “Fish, c'mon. I gotta work with the guy.”

“You gotta work with the guy,” Ms Mooney echoes mockingly. “Fine. Spit on the pig.”

Oswald wrinkles his nose slightly. Better than the chafe of skin certainly, but not at all the concession to his comfort he'd thought Ms Mooney about to make. It must be still the fire burning in James's unfocused gaze driving her.

Shielding James from the rain lest it undo his work, he sucks water from his fingers and replaces it with saliva. Their quaking doubles as he dares seek out hidden vulnerable flesh--heat he expected, but not such softness. Firmly he pushes a finger deep inside. His breath rattles in his lungs. James's does the same, the barest sliver of sound to accompany the sudden clench of his body.

“I've misguided you with my modesty, James,” Oswald admits. “I'm quite a big larger than the fingers inside you now.” He hunches over awkwardly to wet his fingers further; he misses for the most part but he's sure James would appreciate the effort if he knew.

The weight of Ms Mooney's impatience beats against Oswald's back. He leans closer still, a hand braced upon the wall beside James's slack face. “Truly, I am sorry,” he says, a trembling whisper as he lines up by touch, breaches so slowly James's body he thinks his knees will fail. James's indrawn breath hisses between clenched teeth, and Oswald groans, “Yes, I know, oh. I know,” and pushes harder still. His cheek brushes near the soft prickle of buzzed hair behind James's ear. So much about Detective Gordon is surprisingly soft and vulnerable--lamblike to slaughter he came here, and oh how much worse this would be for him if it weren't Oswald tasked to do it.

But despite his mother's claims Oswald is no saint, and the clutching tenderness of James's insides spurs him to take the last few precious inches far more rudely than the first. A choked sob echoes through the rain as Oswald's hips snap snug to James's warmth and there's barely a moment for either of them to breathe before Oswald simply must move to take that pleasure again. The soles of Oswald's shoes slip on slick asphalt as he pushes tightly to James's back, relishing the heat building between them as if James's skin seeks to be next to his without so much ruined clothing in the way.

That thought as much as their ready audience drives Oswald on, fucking harder and harder still until his breath whines like James's. He glances over his shoulder to make sure they see how James's body rocks unfailingly with his, how James's hands hang loose, receptive, how James's face is pressed against the grimy brick without care. Ms Mooney means this to teach James his place and as usual Oswald is amazed at how right she can be while being so very, very wrong.

“You can't play the game if you don't know the players, James,” Oswald says, breathy and broken but certain James hears. The smallest flutter of James's eyelashes, the slightest clench of his jaw--oh yes, he hears. “I can help you.”

James sucks in a deeper breath. “You're all finished,” he grates. He rolls to set his shoulder against the brick and Oswald braces, drives in so deep and hard he chokes. Again and again, and still James grunts out the promise, “I'm taking you all down.”

Oswald nods quickly; of course he'll try. But--

“Did you want a turn, Detective?” comes Ms Mooney's voice. Oswald's lips pinch. An elbow to James's back eliminates the leverage gained and gives it to Oswald instead, easing some of the burn in his thighs. He leans away from James's heat to drive in harder, but still the slap of flesh is louder than any noise James makes. He aches to come.

“You know that's not what I meant,” Bullock says. “Jesus, Fish. Ain't the guy had enough?”

“I don't know. Is it, Gordon?”

James's jaw clenches. Though his whole body jerks with the mad pace Oswald's set and has no hope of maintaining with release so close, he stubbornly chokes back the building flood Oswald can feel shaking his chest.

“Hey, Penguin,” one of Gilzean's men says, “maybe you ain't tryin' hard enough.”

“I think the little guy's takin' it too easy on him,” adds the other.

“I'm not,” Oswald snaps. “Trust me, he's--”

“Better at taking it than you are at dishing it out,” Gilzean says.

Oswald slams his heel against the inside of James's foot. James's legs skid wider still, a small shout escaping as his face grates against the jagged wall. Oswald grits his teeth against the sharp thrill that cuts through his stomach.

“Doesn't sound like he's had enough to me,” says Ms Mooney, sly and satisfied.

“Damn it, Jim!” Bullock barks over the rain and the pounding of Oswald's heart. Jim's forehead rolls against the brick and he fixes Bullock with a look, one that vanishes quickly enough as Oswald smacks his head into the wall again to an approving chorus.

“God damn it,” Bullock mutters uselessly.

Oswald leans in close again, whispers frantically, “Hate me if you must, but I can help you, I promise.” Searching out a tighter grip, he digs fingers hard into flesh and hauls James back onto his cock. “I know it's hard to see it now--”

“Shut up,” James slurs.

With a quick glance to Gilzean, Oswald muscles in closer still. He doesn't bother to hold back his own quiet moan as James's heat burns into him. The smell of James's sweat is sharper here and he breathes deep. Gilzean's thug whistles. “Please trust me, James. You have to scream for them one way or another.”

James mumbles, “Yeah, in your dreams,” and jerks when Oswald laughs. _Of course_ this is the stuff of Oswald's dreams--if he's the one to make James Gordon scream, they'll know not to treat him so dismissively, and he's sure that James's quaking means it won't be long now. But truly, James needs his help for this and more.

“Jim,” Oswald says, and can't help another small laugh at how sweet it tastes. He noses under Jim's skewed collar, offering an absent apology for how cold his nose must be from the rain when Jim's flinches. “Believe in me, Jim,” he pleads, pressing the words to Jim's fevered skin. His hands tug at Jim's shirt, baring more skin as he begins to fuck in earnest again. “I'll help you survive this and Gotham, I know so much--” he gulps clogged air, imagines the burn in his chest mirrored in Jim's and maybe too the low, gut-deep ache that makes him push harder, crave more. His hand tangled up in Jim's shirt spasms; cotton tears and bares the whole of Jim's shoulder, the knotted muscles of his back. He rubs his face against bared skin, tastes salt and rainwater both, sets his teeth to flesh without thought. Whatever slickness Oswald managed to work inside Jim has given way to the rough, gritty pull of naked flesh on flesh, pure searing heat that drives the slam of his cock into Jim, fills his mouth with the taste of fresh-spilled blood. He paints his lips with it and laughs, digs his teeth in deep again and worries at raw nerves, joyous, because there, so close--

On short, furious thrusts that scorch Oswald to the bone with pleasure, James Gordon screams. Oswald pounds into him, greedily sucking in the stench of sweat and blood and sex so thick that not even the pouring rain can beat it down, red smearing Jim's ear from Oswald's lips as he so sincerely gasps, “I told you, I promised I'd help you, Jim, that's it,” and again Jim cries out, and again on the peak of each thrust and even louder than the one before. No one dares some snide remark now. All eyes are on him, weighted with their awe, their _respect_.

Oswald comes with a quiet little sigh. He easily forgives Jim’s sharp jerk away.

In the scant moment they have before Ms Mooney's impatience will pull him away, he tucks his chin down, cheek to cheek as Jim trembles so terribly. “Please don't think unkindly of me, Jim. I only did what I must.” He drags in one last deep lungful of Jim's soiled scent. “Just as you'll do what you must. And I can help you. I will help you, I swear to it.”

The slow slide free of Jim's body is as regretfully pleasurable as first sinking inside. Jim flinches as Oswald lets out a tiny gasp, and in apology, he presses a gentle kiss to Jim's bleeding shoulder. The rain is already washing it clean, and though the tear is jagged he imagines it will heal with a perfect scar.

He steps reluctantly from Jim but pleased enough to soon receive Ms Mooney's praise for a job well done. Done too well, perhaps, for an unfortunate cramp in his leg after such exertion makes him stumble and earn only ugly laughter from her lackeys. Bullock shoves past him muttering filthy curses upon his dear mother, jacket stripped free to throw about Jim's shoulders. The mark of Oswald's promise vanishes beneath battered leather.

“Come inside, Oswald,” Ms Mooney says after he's righted his clothes. “I'll have Lazlo fix you a drink.”

“Thank you, Ms Mooney,” Oswald gushes, intent to follow on her heels. When she simply stares at him expectantly, he pulls in a bracing breath unfortunately full of the usual alleyway stink and fetches the fallen umbrella. When he straightens, his smile is fixed firmly in place. He has his word to keep.


End file.
